TF5
by gkmoberg1
Summary: Fifteen year old Jacqueline watches in awe as the twenty-four tributes rise to their podiums and the 74th Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor! No, wait. May the odds be ever in her favor! This is her third time at the Hunger Games; it has become her life. But she finds out that in the darkness of her world it is she who might be one of those who never return...
1. Prologue

Title: "_TF5_"  
Books - Hunger Games - Rated T - Adventure / Suspense - Foxface

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Summary:

Fifteen year old Jacqueline watches in awe as the twenty-four tributes rise to their podiums and the 74th Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor! No, wait. May the odds be ever in her favor! This is her third time at the Hunger Games; it has become her life. But she finds out that in the darkness of her world it is she who might be one of those who never return...

~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~

**A/N: This is a bit of different take on a Hunger Games fanfic story. It is not a parody. It is a carefully designed story that threads its way through Suzanne Collins' ****Hunger Games**** novel (the first novel of the set) with the intention of not contradicting her original story at any point. This is an Adventure / Suspense story. You might need to read as far as Chapter 2 or 3 before you understand what is going on. Unlike other Hunger Game fanfics, this does not name any of the characters you know in the book; however, it depends highly on all of them. The better you know the Hunger Games story, the more this will make sense.**

**A/N: There are two peer stories to this one, "Seneca" and "Brightly." There is no order to them. They refer to each other but not in any manner wherein you need to have read one before the other. I hope you enjoy them all. ( You can hop through my Profile in order to find the others of the set. )**

**A/N: I'd like to thank my Reviewers, without whom this would be crud. For this section they are 'A-Wayward-Soul', 'Lunatic9289', and two others (Who need get accounts here. Yes, you know who you are!) ... you're all wonderful.**

**Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins and I agree that Hunger Games is her creation and possession, including all its characters, story, setting and so on. I own nothing and make no claim, except that my fingers typed out this story, "TF5".**

~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~~oOo~oOo~

Prologue:

Too late to react, I hear the approach of footsteps. I open my eyes to the darkness that is ever present in the tunnels. I've been dreaming of lying in a warm summer field of grass, looking up at stars in a night sky - I push this aside. Behind me I can feel the warmth of Vic as he sleeps against the tunnel wall. But then I hear the rustle of pant leggings as the arriving figure crouches down before us. I want to shield my face from what could be a blow, but my arms are up inside my sweatshirt for warmth.

In a hushed tone, "Jacqueline," says a deep male voice.

I know from this one word whom this must be. Pluteron, himself. I panic. Despite my sleepiness I try to get a bearing on where I am and on what I am doing. Thrusting my hands out the bottom of my sweatshirt I grab the tribute tracking monitors on my waist. They glow into life and I start my report. "TF12 P5" I stammer, correctly using the protocol that has been drilled into me for years. I focus on the readouts. "Jennifer... I mean tribute F12, sorry sir, is sixteen yards to the east... she is..."

"Jacqueline," he interrupts. "I'm not here about that. I came to see how you are doing."

As always, his deep bass voice speaks slowly and carries a musical ring. It warms me as if he is verbally embracing me.

"Oh," I manage, confused. He's not here about my job. Pluteron is here because he wants to check on me? I don't know how to interpret this.

"We begin next week. I only wanted to see how you are doing."

"Why me?"

"Jacqueline, you refuse to accept it, but you are the one they all look to."

I don't know what to say.

"They do, dear. Even the Career assignees."

This, I seriously doubt. Most of them would like to see me ground into dust.

"So I wanted to know how you are feeling."

"I'm fine, sir," I reply, not sure where this is going. I don't want to tell him about my fevers and chills. Nor about what I've done with my left arm - or, rather, what Jack did to my left arm.

A rough hand, his, touches my cheek and trails down to my chin. He must be wearing night vision goggles if he can do this. How else could he have found me? There are miles and miles of tunnels. Clearly he can see in the dark.

"Okay, then. Remember, if you ever need my help, all you have to do is ask."

"Yes, sir," I answer, still confused.

"Good. Now you go back to sleep. Jennifer won't be getting up for hours. Get your rest."

Then his face draws close to mine. I cannot see him but I visualize his large, round, brown face. The warmth of his breath flows across my cheek. "_You. You are our Persephone. I know you have your troubles, but in a little while you will rise from here and return to sunlight._"

And with that, Pluteron stands up and walks away. His footsteps recede and are quickly hard to discern. He must be wearing soft soled shoes in order to be making so little noise. Soon only the quiet intermittent noises of the tunnel are left. Yet his fine cologne lingers in the air.

"That was different," whispers Vic. I thought he was asleep.

"Yes."

I'm not sure what else to say. Who is Persephone? And: Rise and return to sunlight? Maybe it is Pluteron who needs to be checked on, not me.

Soon I hear Vic's settled breathing return. I snuggle against him, my back up against his chest. For tonight we remain two teenage misfits, dressed in rags, sleeping together for warmth, alone on the packed dirt floor a tunnel network that goes on forever. I pull his arm down a little so I can use the softness of his relaxed bicep as my pillow. His nose, behind my head, must be buried in my hair. I try to return to sleep. Over and over I try pushing aside concerns about why Pluteron would come out and find me, personally, in the middle of the night. Exhausted yet uneasy, I yearn to return to my dream of summer grasses and stars above. But I can't.

# # #

[2012-Aug-31]: Initial posting.  
[2013-Jan-04]: Edited to insert minor corrections.  
[2013-Apr-21]: Minor corrections.


	2. Chapter 1 Commencement Exercises

Chapter One – Commencement Exercises

"_The hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for my preparation_."  
Katniss, Chapter 10, The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

With my good arm I steady myself by grabbing the facing edge of my opened locker door. I make sure I have a solid grip on its cool dull gray metal before I begin. I then gently rise on my tiptoes in order to look onto the high shelf within, but its surface remains just above my line of sight. All I can see is the small mountain of worn out socks and other used clothes I have been tossing up there.

Shifting my weight in preparation, I dare to use my bruised arm to reach in as far as I can. I lift my shoulder and snake my forearm and hand upwards and then under and through my discarded socks. It hurts to lift this arm above my head, but I really need to do this. Pain erupts from the elbow, like knife blades tearing out towards my wrist and back towards my shoulder. As my fingertips probe further into the locker I cry out, all the while hoping I won't come across anything really gross. I recall having hidden two plums up there about a week ago. I had stolen them from the cafeteria, wanting them for later. But then I forgot about them.

Fortunately my fingers and arm survive an encounter with anything that is oozing, but the glow-painted red whistle I need to have with me remains elusive. If it's in there, I can't find it.

And I am glad I don't find the plums, or whatever is left of them.

I back off and sit down on the bench behind me. The pain shooting from my damaged elbow forces me to sit and hold my poor arm, cringing. In time, the stabbing knives fade and I can open my eyes. I wipe the tears away, realize I've been crying, and look around.

The dressing room is emptying out. Most everyone is engrossed in their final preparations and so has paid me no attention. Tara is aware, but as we make eye contact she looks away. I notice Leven leaning against the wall at the far end of the aisle, watching. I'm sure the two have seen how much pain I am in, which is not good. I don't dwell on them. I can't. Instead I force myself to focus on taking advantage of the quiet. The departures give me more room to examine my meager possessions and get myself ready.

My yellow backpack sits open beside me. It already has the clothes I want to bring. I have my long stretch leggings, several shifts and all the socks I've been able to pilfer. The backpack also holds my flashlight, several batteries and two full thermos bottles. I recheck everything. I had promised myself to carry along less this year but to my chagrin the backpack is about full.

Giving up on the whistle, I zip up the backpack and get ready to go. I stand up and use my good arm to swing the door shut hard. I suppose I should give its contents one more look, knowing that I'm not likely to be back for a week or two. But there isn't time. I settle on giving my locker a farewell knuckle rap. Then I turn and march off.

The short aisle of lockers, all in the same dull gray, empties into an area bordered on the farther side by the room's long mirrored wall. I check myself out as I approach: I am a disheveled image, dumped into patched and decrepit shoes, a pair of worn socks, a faded blue skirt, my black sweatshirt (pulled down over my favorite shirt), and my yellow backpack. In the far background of the reflection I can see the form of Leven, still leaning against the wall and still watching me. I ignore her.

I take a swipe at straightening my skirt and then pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I realize I look a bit unusual dressed like this, knowing what I'm off to go do, yet I've found this to be my best choice. There's going to be a lot of running during the coming hours and days. I like my short skirt; it allows my legs to breathe. And I like the sweatshirt because it keeps me warm. Yes I get looks, but this is what works. And I'm good at this.

Turning left I exit the dressing room. If Leven and Tara want to stay behind and stew, that's fine with me. It's when they get in with the other Career assignees that trouble begins. On their own they will glare but fortunately do nothing more.

The Green Room is filling up as my fellow crew members arrive. In the center, a large plaque mounted on a support column holds the motto of our lives: "May the odds be ever in your favor". I, like all the others, walk over and bump it with my fist. Some of the crew near me nod in acknowledgement. Amandla gives me her insane grin. God, I love her. I know she's nervous; this is her first Games. I return her grin with my own trademark dorky one. I'm nervous as well, but we're ready. We're all ready.

I want to find a place to sit. Looking around I see the closest spot is next to Jack and Izzy. There's no way Jack would let me; there's no question how we feel about each other. I turn away.

Across the way I spot Jenn, my best pal. She's with a group. I head over, winding my way between the support columns. Because we are located directly beneath the cornucopia, the Green Room has several rows of massive steel support columns. I'm told the thing above us is made of gold, not just covered in it. It must weigh tons.

"Hey Jackie," Jenn calls to me when sees me coming. Mac, Annie, Kara and Dakota are with her, plus a couple others. They all call my name as I approach. Nervous cries of "Jackie!" fill the air, and I'm grinning like mad.

"Heyyy," I reply, "any chance we can convince everyone to start now?"

"Ha ha. You know how it goes. First we have to get the Big Speech," Jenn says with a roll of her eyes.

Of course I know that. I just don't want to wait.

She playfully pulls my sweatshirt hood off my head and then scoops my hair out and attempts to fluff it up. "Oh," she smiles, "but _you_ are giving this year's Big Speech. Right?"

"Oh, right!" I reply. "Everyone..." I gesture grandly to the group, "today is our day. Go forth! Track!"

Pluteron gives the Big Speech each year to the assembled crew once we've gathered in the massive main chamber. Last year, it was a good natured rah-rah ramble. The year before, well, I barely remember it. I was so nervous, anticipating the start of my first Hunger Games.

A snide comment drifts from behind me. I know who it is before I turn. There, Izzy, Jack, Xander, Tara and Ethan stand in a huddle just paces away. Xander mocks me with a similar grand sweep of his arm. "Go forth! Track!" he intones and they all laugh.

Xander might have meant it in good fun. But with Jack present, I know otherwise. He casts me a cold look. Their group, the Career assignees, has formed the bond I've seen before. As with last year, those assigned to the Career tributes distance themselves from the rest of us. I can excuse this for those who are in their first year. But for Izzy and Ethan it is their second year. And for Jack, as with me, it is the third year. Thus, Jack, their senior member, is the leader of their group. But why they have to form an alliance, one that increasingly shuns the rest of us, is something I don't buy into.

I see Leven glide from the locker room. She merges into their pack, turning her back towards me. I want to know what's going on but am just out of earshot. It's when I get a glimpse of the whistle, my glow-painted red whistle, in her hand that I get a good idea what it might be.

Tara catches my eye for the second time today. Standing by Jack's side, she looks from the whistle to me and back. Nothing is said but her pursed lips confirm my suspicion.

I turn back to Jenn's group. "You need to add more to the Big Speech," says Dakota. "Add that we get a month off, starting as soon as the Games are over, to lie in the sun and bake."

We bargain on this and end up settling on two months' time off, a hammock for each of us, and all the sun lotion the Capital can provide.

A minute later the cannon fires. It's the signal we've been waiting for: Two hours until the start.

The crew, the fifty-four of us who have been living together in the darkness of the catacombs for the last months, rise as one and prepare to exit. There is a collective breath. It is for this day we've been preparing.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

We have to file out of the Green Room in a single row, starting with those assigned to District 1. We drift slowly into the correct order, Jack and Leven's foursome taking up position at the front, followed immediately by Izzy and Xander's group, the District 2s.

Vic, my bud, comes up next to me and stammers "Hey." He's turning white so I give him a hug. I'm not sure if that helps but at least he remains standing. "You can do this," I tell him quietly. He's about rigid with fear. I hug him again, and while we're together I whisper "We've been doing this for months. Think of it that way." He nods as we separate but he doesn't look confident.

Tara and Ethan, the trackers for the District 4 tributes, and their matching valets are in front of us. They ignore us and we ignore them. It's a separation in the line, created by the space between us. I pity the District 3 assignees, knowing they are in the midst of the first group, the Career group.

Vic and I spend the next minutes toying with Kara and Ashton, who are right behind us. Chris, my District partner of sorts, arrives from the boys' dressing room and does his best to elbow me out of line. I try not to give him the pleasure and consider what it would require to take out one of his knees - right here, right now.

But mostly we fret and try to pass the time. It's hard because there is nothing to do except worry. We try not to play up our fears, but none of us can think of what to say.

Finally the last of the District 4 assignees, Ethan, clears passed the three Peacekeepers who are manning the doorway. My group, District 5, steps up. I make sure to step in front of Chris and announce myself before he has the chance.

"Jacqueline. Tracker. Female District 5," I proclaim with mock pride. Saying my name is a small breach of protocol, but today I feel like pointing out that I'm a human.

"Tracker. Female District 5," the head Peacekeeper of the group replies, correcting me, stating each word clearly and separately.

He wants me to repeat after him, saying the words correctly and not including my name. But I'm not going to give him the pleasure. I ignore his prompt and take a step forward and hold out my arms. This, the equipment provisioning phase, is a drill I know well, although it is only performed by Peackeepers on the day of the Hunger Games. For the rest of the hundreds of practice rounds we have played in any of the arenas, stand-ins or even others of our own crew have served in the role of the inventory suppliers.

I reckon this set of Peacekeepers to be new at this. They take a wary look at me. Thinking of my moment in front of the mirror back in the dressing room, I suppose I can understand why. I'm used to my appearance, but the truth, although I have grown accustomed to it and ignore it, is we are ragtag and filthy. The last time I took a bath would have been the last time I was deployed as a tribute during a practice round and got caught in the rain. And right at this moment I don't recall that happening anytime recently. I stand before them as an extreme opposite to their crisp stark white uniforms, military postures and stern attitudes.

The Peacekeeper to my left ventures to go first. He wraps an equipment belt around my waist and ensures it is tight. I notice how he tries to avoid making contact with me or my clothing. The one to my right does the same, securing a slim belt about my neck. A cable is then fastened, down my back, from one belt to the other. Next, the head Peacekeeper installs my two tracker monitors while the other two attach the battery units and transmitters to my waist belt. He flips on the two monitors, apparently not trusting me to do it. They glow to life: one orange and one green. He flips them off.

A bib, of sorts, is placed over me. This is the final layer. It hangs primarily over my chest and back, with "TF5" printed boldly on each half. The glow paint letters are dim here because of the Green Room's lighting but I know that once we are in the tunnels they will shine like there's no tomorrow.

"TF5, you are ready?" he says. It's more of a statement than a question. He thrusts out a hand and secures with it my jaw and therefore my attention. His eyes are riveted on mine. I understand he's making a point, although I don't want him to succeed.

"TF5 Ready." I reply, complying with protocol. It is hard to talk when somebody has their hand clamped on your chin.

"Good," he remarks. He holds me, with his hand still locked on my mouth, continuing to stare into my eyes. A moment goes by and then he thrusts me forward and passed him. I stumble, chin first, into the gangway beyond and am immediately ushered through the short tunnel into the catacomb's large main chamber.

The last thing I hear behind me from the Green Room is "Victor. Valet. Female District 5."

I smile.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

I am now directly below the area of the launch plain. Twenty-four black launch tubes form a large, slow semicircle before me. Each is the vehicle that will bring a tribute up from their Launch Room below, raising them into the arena above. The tubes look ominous in the dim lighting. I have never liked them. I have never liked being in them, despite having been "launched" myself dozens of times during practice rounds.

Another ominous presence here is the large freight elevator along the wall nearest to where I entered. This too starts on the levels below and ascends into the arena. The Gamemakers use this elevator to raise feasts and other prepared items into the game. Unlike the launch tubes though, the freight elevator has a door on this level. Hence, preparations can be made here or else in the kitchens below before lifting them into place. Things can get busy in this room, very busy.

The group here ahead of me is the Career assignees, excusing the group for District 3. Given that I am alone, they circle in. Izzy, decked out in her "TF2" bib, arrives in the lead.

"What happened to you?"

"I told them my name." They full well grasp this means I broke protocol.

"Should have used mine," says Jack, slyly.

I don't have a reply for this, and they take the moment to enjoy his remark. The group forms tighter around me and I begin to worry.

"I really hope you're all set," says Izzy. I remember my "missing" alarm whistle. I know they have it, and they know I know this.

"It'd be a shame if you weren't," chimes in her valet partner.

Xander gives my bad shoulder a bump from behind. I wince. "Oh, excuse me," he adds. Karen, his valet partner, puts her hand to her mouth in pretend surprise.

"Leave her alone!" announces a voice from across the room.

We turn and there stands my valet partner, Vic. He's now equipped and wearing his "V5F" bib but also is nursing a bloody lip, which actually makes him look more defiant than I know him to be.

"What is this?" asks Jack. "The 5s are t-taking on the Peacekeepers?"

"What happened to you?" I ask, marching out of the knot that had formed around me.

"I did just like you. Oh, Jackie, they're all going to do it!"

Reaching him I get my fingers into his face, checking out the bruise.

"The Peacekeeper backhanded me as soon as I broke protocol," he explains. "It was electric. Uh, not being hit. I mean the reaction behind me – you should see the rest of the line behind us in Green Room!"

"Y-you're both idiots," announces Jack. He and his group have come up behind me.

"Can't help it if you sheep simply followed orders," retorts Vic.

"So, you're now the big guy?" barks Ethan. He, Jack and Izzy – the veterans – make a formidable set. Plus, the "1" on Jack's bib makes him appear all that more prominent. Vic starts to back away. In order to cover for him I turn on the Career pack.

"You do it your way as you like. So sorry for not following your lead."

"Fine, screw this up for the rest of us," replies Izzy.

Heavy off balance footsteps mark the arrival of my district partner. Chris stumbles from the gangway tunnel. He is doubled over but dressed as he should be. His "TM5" bib hangs awkwardly out in front of him.

"The Peacekeeper sucker punched me before I said anything," he says angrily.

A twinge crosses my stomach. I've started something. I didn't mean to. But my saying my name has put something in motion.

Ian, one of the District 3 trackers, pipes up. "If that's how they're going to treat us, I'm getting back in line. I feel cheated." He's backing me!

Jack bristles. The 3s usually cower obediently, so this showing is unexpected. In addition Jack knows that while our numbers are roughly even at the moment, as more trackers and valets arrive from the Green Room his group will become outnumbered. Up in the arena the Career tributes might rule the initial direction of the Games, but here in the catacombs numbers win. So as the provisioning phase continues, the odds will be increasingly against his favor.

I give him my best winning smile.

In time the room starts to fill. Vic, Chris and I mingle with the teams for Districts 6, 7 and 8. The Career pack moves away from the center of the chamber but does not entirely retreat.

Eventually I spot Amandla, so I know we're nearing the end. She looks sweet in her "TF11" bib.

We learn nobody after Chris dared continue my stunt of breaking protocol. The 6s fell back to proper announcing and the Peacekeepers likewise refrained from beating up any more of us. My stomach starts to settle. Perhaps we can get on with things without further fuss.

The noise level of the room rises, as does the heat.

A Peacekeeper walks abruptly to the center of the room, very close to where my group is standing. His bright white uniform makes him stand out against our tattered browns and filth. I look at him to see if I know him, but what I spot instead is his gun. A large unholstered silver pistol rises in his right hand. It arcs out and starts to come around at me in a horrifying motion that catches me by surprise. For a moment all I see is that massive pistol. It moves on and on, up, over and toward me. I think _can this be for real?_ Then the barrel passes beyond my face and it continues to rise. I start to sigh with relief but that's when he fires. The pistol discharges into the ceiling almost directly above Vic; the gun far too close to my head. The explosion is shattering.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

Tears burn in my eyes. My hands are over my ears. I think the awful sound in the air is my own cries. I stagger and fall, ending up on my elbows and knees, staring at the concrete floor and trying to get a sense of where I am.

Chris pulls me back up. He and Vic look dazed. Before us, the Peacekeeper still has his arm raised to the ceiling and I fear he will fire the gun again. As the rest of the room comes back into focus I see most everyone either frozen in shock or else backing away.

I catch the opening of the freight elevator door. Its black doors part like the maw of a great beast. Five more Peacekeepers step out, each holding a gun. They spread out in front of us, their faces expressionless, their firearms ready.

But the freight elevator has one more presentation to make. Orcusin, Pluteron's primary assistant, emerges and walks to the center of our main chamber. We are all silenced by her presence. She is despised. For a long while she stares us down without saying a word.

"I'm a little disappointed," she begins. "We've been practicing for months. Everything is ready. The Games start in just over an hour."

She pauses.

"I've been told there has been some difficulty." She stares at me. I sense most everyone is doing the same. Everyone here knows what happened.

I don't dare look away from her.

She continues, still looking at me but addressing the entire room. "Don't any of you get it into your head that you can't be replaced."

Nobody moves. Her voice is like gravel. I trust Jack's cold stare is trained on me, but I don't want to confirm it.

"If I hear anything more, _anything_, that is what will happen. Your presence here will be terminated and we will move on."

There is no doubt what she means by 'terminated,' the Peacekeepers with their drawn weapons make it all too clear.

"The six members of this crew who are your fill-ins are being detained. They'll stay in the Green Room. The forty-eight of you will do your tasks, and I repeat: You Will Do Your Tasks.

"I've spoken with Pluteron. We are bringing in the training crew from arena seventy-five. They'll be here within a couple of hours. They'll join your comrades in the Green Room. So as I said: don't think you can't be replaced. There will be no more breaches of protocol. You will do your duties as you have been trained to do. We have trained too long for any misbehavior. One step, one step more, and you will not like the consequences.

"Any questions?"

Nobody says a thing.

She takes a couple steps, breaking the room's tension. I finally dare to look about and find indeed most are looking my direction. Yet I feel despite what happened earlier, they are looking to me for support and not looking at me in dismay.

Daring a new round of rebuke from Orcusin, I take a step forward. She ignores me, but Jack doesn't. He moves to the front of his group, some paces away, stepping clearly out before them. We are the two senior members of this year's crew. Neither of us wants to yield any sense of who is the lead for our respective groups.

Removing the edge from her voice, Orcusin starts again. "Arieson will command the areas around the cornucopia. When you approach the center of the arena, you will switch over to his channel. Demeteron and Artemisin will command the wheat field and woods respectively. Same procedure. When your tribute enters the field or the woods, you will switch over to their channel.

"And as always, Athenin overrides all. If she addresses you, you will act in agreement.

"If you tribute dies, remain where you are. When Athenin radios you that your duty is finished, return to the Green Room. You will return your equipment and be put on another assignment."

That's the part I know all too well, I reflect. I'm a trained tracker who so far has spent most days of the actual Hunger Games cleaning dishes in the cafeteria. It is my wildest hope to have my tribute last at least a couple days this time around.

"By this point, your tributes should be arriving. I suggest turning on your monitors and finding them. Once you do, memorize the adjacent launch tube – this will be the one they use. Then, go find a place and sit down. These Games have not even begun and you've been on your feet for hours. Not good. I want to see you sitting down and staying quiet. If this is somehow difficult, I will come over and explain things again…"

Orcusin backs off into the still opened freight elevator while we begin our first exercise. I turn on my orange tracking monitor and immediately my tribute's location shines back at me. I'm actually rather close to her; she is about ten yards off and one floor down. From this distance the tracking device embedded in her arm is an easy pickup.

I grab Vic's hand and move so that we stand right above her. It is clear which launch tube will be hers.

"I heard you had a better Big Speech," says Vic. I feign shock.

Actually, Vic has a good point: that was this year's Big Speech.

"Mine was not quite so … upbeat. More melancholy."

I wonder where Pluteron might be. Why wasn't he here? I had been looking forward to another warm send-off. Alas, no. Momentarily I recall his words to me last week in the tunnels: "Persephone" and "return to sunlight." They remain a mystery.

It turns out my tribute is right next to Jenn's. We playfully link arms and ponder whose launch tube looks better. Our two orange tracking monitors show how close our assignments are to each other, yet we know they are in separate preparation rooms. Both are staying rather still. We wonder what is going on below us. I imagine mine is likely being dressed or is talking with her team.

I then take a moment to check my other tracking monitor. I flip it on and it too immediately reads my tribute's presence. In its green glow I can tell she's alive and healthy. That's all I need to know for now so I turn off both devices.

Vic, Jenn, her valet partner Curtis, and I find an open place along the nearby wall and sit down. None of us want to rile Orcusin.

We wait.

I wish I had the plums from my locker.

And I wish I had my alert whistle. I think I'm going to need it.

# # #

A/N: That was fun! What do you think?  
A/N: I'd like to thank my reviewers – you guys are great.

[2013-Apr-21]: Minor corrections.


	3. Chapter 2 Launch

Chapter Two – Launch

"_'Truly,' says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. 'Good luck, girl on fire.' And then a glass cylinder is being lowered around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high."_  
Katniss, Chapter 10, The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

Athenin's beautiful, gentle voice breaks the silence. "Tributes, prepare for launch."

This is the one and only time Athenin will address the tributes. Her message is broadcast on our radios as well as over the ceiling intercoms in the Launch Rooms. For the tributes and their handlers it is their moment for good-byes. For us it is our notice to get ready. In one minute the Games will begin.

Vic and I hurry to our tribute's launch tube. Around us the other teams are doing the same. Vic undoes the restraining latches, fiddling with them in his nervousness, and opens the tube's pair of blast shutters. I move to my left in order to stand on my mark. I am to stand at this station, about a third of the way around the edge of the tube from him, and not move. Each of us can see into the black tube through the two opened view portals.

"Forty-five seconds," says Athenin.

From here out, Athenin's communications are only with the teams. Because there are forty-eight radios engaged in this single large chamber, her multiplied voice radiates seemingly from all points. I hear a sea of voices, all hers, rising and falling as she speaks. In my listening to her in these moments, through all our practice rounds, I have wondered if this is what a host of angels sounds like.

"Forty seconds," she says.

Vic looks over at me. I can see how frightened he is by his body language and shallow breaths. I grab his left hand in my right and don't let go. The seconds move on but in slow motion.

Jenn mouths "Good luck!" to me and Vic.

"Thirty seconds."

I remember this moment from a year ago and then again from two years ago. This is my third time to stand here, awaiting the start. It is Vic's first. I once felt like Vic, knowing the procedures but not knowing how it was going to feel like when the practice rounds ended and the real event arrived.

Arieson's rough voice takes over. "Twenty seconds."

I swing Vic's hand in mine. I keep looking over at him and fear he's going to pass out. Vic is so sweet, but he's very impressionable and I'm worried he's not cut out for this.

The glass lining within the launch tube starts to descend. We can hear its vibrations against the launch tube's steel outer shell. The top of the glass cylinder slides down below our two portals, and soon thereafter I catch the smell within of fresh paint and a hint of the outdoors above. I ponder that I could extend my free hand through the portal and into the tube. I could even drop something on my tribute's head, were I so inclined.

Then the vibration noise stops. The glass lining has come down around our tribute. Just below us, out of sight, she is standing within it on her steel launch pad.

"Fifteen seconds."

The ascent begins. The top of the glass comes back up and covers over the inside of our view portals. A light within the tube, on the far side from me and Vic, comes on. It is an odd light; I've never understood it. Somehow, although all appears dark to the tribute, we can see her.

I give Vic's hand a squeeze.

"Ten seconds."

She appears. Our tribute rises from head to foot before us, propelled upwards by the plate she is standing on. For a brief second I am face to face with her, although she cannot see me. I will never be this close to her again. She is radiant. Her eyes pass level with mine. I wish I could meet her, but it is not possible. She will never know me. And I'll never know even as much as her name.

She, my tribute, stares with dilated pupils at the darkness before her, her face set with fear and uncertainty. Yet I am dazzled by everything about her. Her hair is combed and clean. It glows in shades of red, lit by the tube's odd lighting. Her face is unblemished. Her tunic fits snug about her, everything about it has been crafted for her.

A realization hits me. I have risen into this arena on these launch pads. I have spent days running through its woods and fields, a tracker inserted in my arm. I've climbed trees to retrieve entangled silver parachutes. I've helped place and check hundreds of cameras and microphones. I've helped paint the podiums that sit atop these launch tubes. I've spent weeks underground, tuning my ability to serve as a tracker. My training to do these things runs back three years, back to when I was first brought here at the age of twelve. Here, I am comfortable.

But I have never been her. I've never been reaped and carried away to the Capital with only three minutes to sum up all things with my family. I've never been paraded about, preened by stylists, and interviewed before a throng of thousands. I've never been launched into an arena where I would be left to face the prospect of meeting an imminent and gruesome death. I've never had to face others who have trained for this event and would be willing and able to cut me to ribbons. Yet, all of that is happening to her – right now.

So what am I? What is she? I am unwashed and unknown. She is a portrait of beauty and carrying the hopes of a district. My throat contracts in reaction to what I am thinking. The horror of her situation comes to me as it never has before. This is my third time to be standing here. Have I grown? Have I grown so as to encounter this line of thinking whereas I never thought of such before? Am I the fool for being here? Perhaps it is I who deserves to be on that lift... what am I worth?

I snap back to the present but with a looming foreboding of shame that is not going to leave me.

Her arms and hands are rising to our eye level. Vic and I perform our role of checking her hands. If we see any hint of an object, we are to radio a notice. But she is clean. The silence around us indicates that none of the other teams have seen anything amiss with their tributes.

I struggle to put on hold the thoughts in my mind.

I cried last year and the year before when each time my tribute ran into the melee and didn't come out. I cried because I wasn't going to get to be a real tracker. My tribute was dead and so my task was over. Relieved of duty, I returned my equipment and was herded off to assist with the many other elements of these Games. But I had cried buckets. I had cried and cried, but it was all for me. All my training and expectations were blown up in the instant my assigned tribute perished.

Today, though, that memory puts me in shame. Before, I was young, a child. At this moment I'm looking at somebody who is very much alive, and I find myself alarmed and frightened for her. I am nothing; I face that. Yet this girl, likely the same age as me, is being sent to her death. I clench my mouth so as not to scream.

Soon her legs and boots are rising passed us. We check the plate itself as this too lifts up to our eye level. There is nothing on it except her; she hasn't placed anything here that she could have at the ready as soon as her ascent finishes. Again, the silence in the chamber tells me that all the other tributes are clean.

And then she is out of sight. I will likely never see her again. From here on she will be a blip on the orange tracker screen I wear on my waist belt. And the flowing readout of her bio meters will continue non-stop in green on the monitor I wear next to it.

This time Vic squeezes my hand. I look over at him. I see he's reading my face and not seeing the normal confident me.

"Zero," announces Arieson's voice.

The lifts have all stopped. The twenty-four tributes are standing above us on their raised platforms, unable to move for the next sixty seconds. All of Panem is watching. Us, their tracking crews, are likely the only ones in the entire country who are not.

A new voice, one we all know, booms on our speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!" It is Claudius Templesmith. His designated Hunger Games' title is Hermeson; however, nobody calls him that. To all he is lovable, ageless Claudius.

Now the second sixty-second countdown begins. This is the one the rest of the world knows.

I put all I've been thinking about on hold.

As we have done dozens of times in practice rounds, we switch off our radios and devices. The twenty-four trackers back off, away from the launch tubes and into the nearest tunnel. Our valet comrades work at closing the blast shutters on their respective launch tubes. They move as quickly as possible, knowing they must firmly and properly secure the blast shutters. As each finishes, they too back away and join us in the tunnel entrances.

"Forty-five seconds!" Yells Orcusin. I spy her standing alone in very middle of the main chamber. She is holding a stop watch and will count down the seconds for us. "Trackers," she growls, "you _must_ have your radios and monitors turned _off._"

We have been told how, several years ago, a tribute blew herself up during this crucial first minute of the Games. She errantly dropped something and triggered one of the mines that surrounded her platform. And once one of the mines about her base exploded, they all did. For the viewers it was a spectacular blast - a geyser of fire and dirt, plus the remains of one unlucky tribute. But what was never shown on television was the effect it had to the catacombs and the trackers. The force and concussion of the blast deafened or maimed nearly everyone. It must have been brutal. So far today I've survived a gunshot in this enclosed chamber. I cannot imagine what the effect of exploding mines would be.

Urgently I pull Vic into the tunnel when he reaches me. His hands are sweaty and he's a little surprised by how hard I pull him to me.

"Let's hope she runs away from the bloodbath," he whispers.

"Thirty seconds!" Yells Orcusin.

"Yes, I do too," I answer. He doesn't know how much I wish that. But this year it's for her, my tribute, and not me.

We are forced to wait; there is nothing else we can do.

Because of what happened to that unlucky tribute and the detonation's effects on the catacombs, precautions were put into place. That is why we all have to wait in the tunnels. And so as to protect our sensitive radios and tracking monitors, they must be switched off. Anyone who leaves them on or turns them back on too soon risks punishment. Nobody wants to see more of that today.

I imagine my tribute, the beautiful girl I saw. She was so close to me for those brief seconds. I imagine her now: She's standing still on her platform, getting used to the daylight, looking at her surroundings, looking at the other tributes, eying the cornucopia and scanning all the weapons and supplies scattered before her. Fear must be running through every cell of her being.

"Fifteen seconds!" yells Orcusin.

My fingers are at my belt, holding my monitors. _Please run!_

"Ten!... Nine... Keep those radios _off_ everybody!"

"Five!"

Vic moves around behind me.

"Three... Two... One... Go!"

I jerk the on/off toggles on both of my monitors. They glow to life. They are my lifeline to my tribute. Her blip is already moving. I run into the main chamber, away from the tunnel entrances. I want to close the distance. My fellow trackers are doing the same. The scene is pure pell-mell confusion. Jenn is out in front of me. I hear Izzy and then Ethan cursing nearby. Chris comes very close to plowing me over.

I stop near a launch tube and use it to partially shield myself. I turn back and forth, left and right, trying to remain facing toward my tribute, but when the one you are tracking is so close, as mine is at this moment, it is hard. I twirl several times. My eyes are glued to the orange monitor. Vic is right with me but is letting me spin without getting in my way.

Then she streaks right over top of me and away. "Vic, she's running!" I scream. And with that, I grab his hand and we fire off into the darkness of the nearest tunnel.

The chase is on.

# # #


	4. Chapter 3 The Catacombs

A/N: Hi! To answer a question received from two different readers: Yes, this entire story, from beginning to end, is being told from a single point of view. Jaqueline's is the only point of view throughout. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Three – The Catacombs

_"The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capital residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments._

_They say the food is excellent."_  
Katniss, Chapter 10, The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~

Bolting into the darkness of the catacombs, I don't think my feet touch the ground for the first hundred yards. I keep yelling "Vic, she's alive!" My heart is singing.

Quickly the light from the main chamber and the noises of the throng, still jostling for position, fade. My right hand is out to my side the moment the darkness envelops us. Training has long taught me this key. I've automatically put on my tracing glove, and my fingers now glide along the tunnel wall, feeling its grooves and ridges. The wall reads like a map, letting me know what is up ahead. It is a sign language, a braille, known by those of us who live in the darkness below the arenas.

The two meters at my waist gleam and sparsely light the area immediately before me. As I once again grow accustomed to the darkness their glow will become the only light I need and the only light I will see for days.

My bib helps, but barely. Its freshly painted "TF5" illuminates as far as my arms and hands but little else. It will fade in about a week. But for now it is like a siren announcing my presence to anyone whom I approach in these dark tunnels.

Not hearing Vic anymore I worry, slow and then turn to see if he is still with me. Mistake! He crashes into me. The distance between us was too little. We tumble to the hard packed dirt floor, land on each other and come to a bruising stop. As I hit the ground I protectively curl myself around my already wounded left elbow. This time I am lucky and am not racked with pain. Instantly we scramble back to our feet but are laughing out loud.

"She did it! She ran away from the bloodbath," a grinning Vic declares.

I hug him in response.

Then I look down at my meters and spin myself around so as to locate where she is headed. Thus far she's been running off in a straight line. Yet she is slowing.

"She's about 100 yards off to our right," I say. "We're going to need to take the next right branch."

"Sure thing."

The tunnel system surrounding the cornucopia is densely connected. We refer to it as The Downtown. In contrast, the tunnels that radiate away, out towards the perimeter of the arena, are far less frequently connected. Out there you can lose track of your tribute if you are not careful. But here in The Downtown tracking is easy.

"Is she hurt?" I'm talking to myself more than to Vic but he leans in to join me at examining my green bio monitor.

To my horror I find she is. My heart comes to a screeching halt. I'm not medically trained, but I know the signs of a body suffering from injury. And my tribute is showing them. Despite my initial glee of having a live tribute, I am confronted with the real possibility that she might be seriously wounded. Everything might fall apart over the next minutes.

"Her endorphin levels are very high!"

I start to fear the worst. I back up against the tunnel wall and get into checking out the metrics. The tracking chip in her arm feeds everything I ask for into my bio monitor.

"Okay, okay, she's got a buildup of lactic acid," I tell him while my fingers dance over the monitor's dials and touch screen controls.

"What does that mean?" asks Vic.

"It means she, um, her metabolism is running way ahead of how well she can process the physical effects of running away from the launch plain."

"But we haven't come that far!"

"I know. But I think … I think if she is stopping here then it might be out of fatigue and muscle burn." I check my orange monitor and verify that she has been still for the last half minute.

"So, what does that mean?" asks Vic again.

"Most likely, she's not much of a runner. Plus she's been in a panic state since, likely, when she stepped onto her launch platform." We both remember her expression as she rose before us, scarcely three minutes ago. "She's exhausted. I'll bet she's right now trying to rub muscle pain out of her legs."

Vic ponders this and we continue to watch the two monitors. She remains still and neither meter shows anything new.

"Do you think that's all that's wrong with her?"

"Right," I say in agreement to his suggestion that I should check for more. I know there's more. My instincts are telling me she's hurting. I start to tap the green monitor's interface with a new direction of inquiry. Again her embedded tracking chip feeds back responses. My first discovery is that her blood oxygenation is poor. But this might be further evidence of the lactic acid build up.

Suddenly our radios come to life. Arieson's voice crackles, "TF5. Transfer to Artemisin." She's run from the launch plain and into the woods far enough that she's left behind the part of the arena controlled by Arieson. It's a small relief to know the Gamemakers consider her as separated from the action at the cornucopia.

I grab my microphone and reply. "TF5. Transfer to Artemisin."

Hurriedly I switch the radio comm channel over to Artemisin.

"Artemisin. TF5. Transfer." I say.

"This means she's into the woods," I tell Vic.

"So, we're under the woods now?" asks Vic.

"Yup."

"TF5. Artemisin. Welcome," Artemisin announces on our radios and then continues immediately with "TF5. P3."

"TF5. P3." I reply. My left hand adjusts the broadcast strength knob of the primary battery pack on my belt. Then I put in, "Artemisin. TF5. Tribute showing metabolism exhaustion. Anything visual?"

I wink at Vic. If Artemisin replies she might provide a clue on what our tribute is doing.

I am certain that what I just said didn't make sense. _Metabolism exhaustion_?

"TF5," Artemisin replies, "Tribute is winded and in pain. She has a knife wound on her lower right arm."

I turn to Vic, not knowing how great a worry this might be. It's probably bad.

He doesn't say anything. I can tell he's thinking the same thing and running through the same worries.

"What if she's badly hurt and can't stop the bleeding?" he finally asks.

Our radios speak again, but this time the message is not for us. "TF3 Retire," says Athenin.

"_That_, I say." to Vic, "that's what will happen."

The bloodbath must be winding down. The female tribute from District 3 has died. While I think it would be more appropriate to say that outright, that's not how it happens. Instead we get a broadcast message announcing that a tracker, TF3 in this case, is done. Meaning her job is over – and such would only happen if her assigned tribute has died. She can return to the Green Room and turn in her equipment. Her accompanying valet, that would be VF3, would do the same.

Vic and I look at each other. We all like Kalia, but her task as tracker is over for this year. More importantly, a girl, probably much like us, is dead.

Athenin continues, pausing between each pronouncement. "TM4 Retire. TM5 Retire." I catch my breath, knowing this means Chris is done. Chris – the one who tried to elbow me out of line back in the Green Room, the one who took a sucker punch to the stomach from the main Peacekeeper, and the one who lifted me back up after the gunshot in the main chamber – is done already for this year.

"TF6 Retire. TM6 Retire." Her voice, which I have always found to be beautiful, remains clear of any edge. It is not musical. Instead it is a steady, measured speaking tone that conveys a sense of confidence, one that I wish I could find in myself.

"TF7 Retire. TM7 Retire. TM8 Retire." I could listen to her all day. Yet what she is saying is in absolute contrast to that beauty.

"TF9 Retire. TM9 Retire. TF10 Retire." Then silence.

"That was eleven in total," says Vic. Eleven tributes are dead. Eleven tracking teams are finished for this year.

"All those kids are dead, Vic."

"Yeh."

"They're -" I begin, but I am cut off. A gunshot blast erupts down the passageway from where we just came.

I scream.

Two more gunshots follow in rapid succession.

By now I'm cowering on the floor with my hands over my ears. Vic, I find, is doing the same. As with the gunshot we endured in the main chamber the retort is unbearably loud. The tunnel walls magnify the sound.

"What is going on?" he asks.

We wait a minute, fearing more blasts. But there are none. I sit up and reach about until I find him.

"That must have been from the main chamber," I say.

"Are they coming after us?" He's holding my hand like there's no tomorrow.

"I hope not."

~oOo~ ~oOo~ Katniss ~oOo~ ~oOo~

"She's on the move!" I say to Vic. My orange tracking monitor shows our tribute has left her resting spot and is headed towards us, overhead.

My announcement interrupts the little meeting Vic and I have been having. We've been sitting on the floor of the tunnel for the last minutes pondering our fate. Vic and I cannot figure out why the Peacekeepers were using their guns. There's no reason to hunt us, the trackers. It doesn't make sense. We're on their side; we help with the operation of the Games. So why would they have fired more gunshots? We can't figure it out. Vic keeps saying "They're going to come and shoot us, aren't they?" But I can't figure out why that would happen.

As best we can, using the tunnels of The Downtown, we trail behind our tribute. I come to realize she's on a course that is roughly counterclockwise about the cornucopia.

"She's staying about a half mile away from the area of the bloodbath but is circling it," I tell him.

He walks along silently behind me. He too has his right hand gliding along the tunnel wall. The terrain here is flat but it is always good practice to keep your hand on the wall.

A minute later our radios simultaneously come alive with Artemisin's voice. "TF5. P2." This is not good.

I reply "TF5. P2." At the same time I increase the broadcast setting on my battery pack from P3 to P2. I notice Vic's alarm and agree with him. A rise in priority is seldom a good thing. Something is about to happen.

The Gamemakers assign a priority to each tribute and they change that value throughout the game. Priority Zero, or P0 for short, is the highest. P5 is the lowest. When a tribute is at P0, it means she or he is in a life-or-death situation. The televised coverage of the Games is surely focused on your tribute during such times. As trackers, having the broadcast setting on our gear likewise set to P0 ensures that the Gamemakers are receiving all that can be sent from the tribute's tiny embedded tracking chip. I am told that the battery packs and radios we carry on our belts amplify and rebroadcast the emissions from our tribute's tracking chip as much as by several dozen times.

As you might guess, since most of us trackers want to our tributes to survive we fear being handed a P0.

On the other side of things, a Priority Five is the lowest. P5 means your tribute is far from any action and there is little likelihood of any action taking place for them in the near future. The cameras may from time to time show your tribute, but they are far from center stage.

Obviously us trackers like to see our assigned tribute assigned to P5.

The first clue to our P2 assignment appears as a faint, moving glow in the tunnel ahead of us. Down here that can only mean one thing: another tracker.

"Hi, it's Jackie, TF5," I call out.

"Hey!" replies a voice from the darkness ahead. "It's me, Jenn!"

I take off at a run towards her. So does Vic. Soon we can make out her TF12 bib clearly in the darkness. Right behind her we can see Curtis' matching VF12 bib.

Yet, for as happy as I am to find Jenn it means our tributes might be about to encounter each other. And that could mean a battle. Jenn and I bump fists as we meet up. Then we each concentrate on our monitors. They show the same thing, in the woods above us our tributes are moving almost directly at each other. As we watch they slow and then stop. The distance between them reduces to barely a few yards. All four of us hold our breath. Will there be a fight? But then we see their blips separate and move away, both running further into the woods and away from each other.

I have so many questions to ask Jenn, but there's no time. Perhaps she knows something about the gunshots. I'd love to hear what her tribute looks like. But she and I must stick with our assigned tributes.

"Bye Jenn!" I yell over my shoulder at her retreating form.

"Bye Jackie! Bye Vic!" she and Curtis yell in return. I can only hope to meet up with her again soon.

As before our tribute runs but a short distance. Checking the bio meter I find it is for the same reason.

"Vic," I say, "our tribute is not a runner. She runs out of breath really fast."

I can tell that this worries him. It worries me too. If she's going to remain this close to the cornucopia she had better be very careful. Tributes who stick around the cornucopia had better be Careers or else allied with them. I doubt a 5 is going to be in the Career pack and all her actions so far indicate she is not.

"I hope she's good at hiding," Vic says. Even at a half mile distance, she is not safe.

"Yes. If not, they're going to hunt her down before nightfall." It's a grim thought.

And I know how much Jack would like for that to happen.

~oOo~ ~oOo~ Rue ~oOo~ ~oOo~

For an hour our tribute does not move. I work at reading her bio metrics but learn nothing. At one point the Gamemakers take over my bio monitor remotely. I watch as they browse through its readings. By observing how they navigate my bio meter's control menus I learn both that she has been losing blood and how I can check this on my own.

I presume she is on camera fairly often, given her P2 status. Vic and I, meanwhile, relax and have a snack. We use supplies from his backpack and sit on the tunnel floor awaiting her next move.

"Why haven't they moved her off P2?" he eventually thinks to ask.

I don't have a reason for that. We had overheard Artemisin assigning Jenn to P4 shortly after we separated from her and Curtis. But there had been no similar call for us.

"Is she dying?" he asks me.

That gives me a start, but in checking her meters anew I find she's doing well. Better than before, in fact. This is a bit of a surprise, having been told by Artemisin that she had a knife wound. She must have stopped the bleeding and stabilized the wound.

Seizing on an idea I tune my orange tracking monitor. I had left it set up to center on my tribute. But now I ask it to show me any nearby tributes. A second blip immediately appears.

"Woah! Vic, she's not alone."

"What?"

"The girl tribute from eleven is right nearby."

"Where?"

I point all this out to him. The two tributes are about 20 yards apart. Neither is moving.

"Well, her tracker would be Amandla," he says.

"Uh, right."

This means we cannot be alone.

"Hi!" I call out into the darkness, feeling a bit foolish. "It's Jackie and Vic! Are you there Amandla?"

"Hi!" we hear in reply.

Feeling really stupid we get up and figure out where she and her valet have been hanging out. It turns out they were around two corners from us. Small world. Fortunately they too didn't realize how close we were together. If anything I'm glad I figured it out first.

The four of us have a good laugh and then set up camp in one of the tunnel intersections below our two tributes. I agree to keep an eye on both of them, using my orange tracking monitor and the others settle down on the tunnel floor.

"Do you know why the Peacekeepers were shooting?" asks Sean, Amandla's valet partner. He means the three shots that happened right after Athenin's retirement announcements.

"We don't." Vic answers.

"I can't imagine anything louder," says Amandla, and we all agree.

"You should see my tribute!" she continues. "She's so young. It's not right that she's in there. All the others have to be twice her size. What about yours?"

"She's beautiful," says Vic. I turn, surprised. This is not what I was expecting, not from Vic anyway. "She's about as tall as Jackie," he continues, "but her hair is different. It's orange or red."

"Red, I think," I add, "shoulder length."

"Sounds like yours is older than ours," says Amandla. She's looking at me, comparing me to the size of her tribute.

"Probably."

In the distance the cannon fires. It's nowhere near as loud as the gun yet its sharp crack travels clearly through the tunnel system. In reaction, Amandla and I simultaneously check our bio meters. Both meters show that our respective tributes are alive. It's a natural reaction. Anytime we hear the cannon fire it's a learned reflex action to check our assigned tribute's health.

"The Gamemakers are marking the deaths from the bloodbath," I tell them. Amandla, Vic and Sean are first-year crewmembers. While I figure they would know that the cannon is delayed until the bloodbath is settled I remind them anyway.

We listen in silence as it booms ten more times. It has a chilling effect on the four of us. We sit together for some time. None of us feel like talking. Despite the months of training, to know this is for real, with real lives being lost above us, creates a somber mood.

"Jackie," Sean asks, breaking the silence, "what happened back at the Green Room?"

"I did something dumb," I confess. I'm never one to lie, and this is true even when I have to admit something I'm not proud of. "When it came to be my turn to get my tracking inventory, the first thing I told the Peacekeepers was that my name was Jacqueline."

I have to tell him because Sean and Amandla would have been at the far end of the Green Room, back near Jenn. They wouldn't have been able to see what was happening at the front of the line.

"Seriously, she did," Vic confirms.

"They didn't take too kindly to that. The main Peacekeeper grabbed me."

"He grabbed your face. I thought he was going to do worse."

"But instead, once my belts and equipment were put on, he shoved me out into the passageway."

"And then I did the same thing."

"You did?" asks Sean.

"Yes. That too was dumb. I shouldn't have done it. But I was the next in line and the first thing I said was 'Victor, Valet. Female District 5.'"

Sean and Amandla stare in amazement to hear this.

"I got punched." Vic points out where, raising his hand so that his fingers touch the bruise on his face and along his split lip.

"And then next was Chris, TM5. The Peacekeepers punched him before he said even one word!" says Vic.

"Guys, you are lucky to be alive," says Amandla.

"Turns out you're right," I reply, "but we didn't really mean to cause a problem.

"I wouldn't have done it if I had known how Orcusin and the Peacekeepers would react."

"Orcusin was angry," says Amandla, "just as she likes to be."

"That gun was so loud!" says Sean, referring to the first gunshot, the one fired in the main chamber.

"I know!" I say. "I was right next to it when he fired." I hold my hand up to my ear without thinking about doing so. I had thought my ear would be ringing but, no, it simply hurt. Maybe the ringing is something that happens later. "It knocked me right over."

"Me too," agrees Vic.

That's news to me. I remember being on the floor but then being picked up by Vic and Chris.

"I landed on you, don't you remember that Jackie?"

"No, I don't."

"Wow, you must have been out."

I don't like the idea that I was knocked out. Yet, remembering that moment brings tears back to my eyes.

"So what do you think they're doing?" Sean asks, interrupting my thoughts. He is pointing at the ceiling, indicating our two tributes.

"Maybe they're talking," says Vic.

"No, they're too far from each other," says Amandla. I think she's right. If they're trying to not reveal themselves to the Careers, which would make sense, then talking at their present distance would be risky.

"Maybe they don't know they're so close to each other," I suggest.

"Yeh, maybe they don't know the other is there," adds Vic.

"Or maybe they do but they're both resting," says Sean.

"Is yours injured?" I ask.

"No. Is yours?"

"Artemisin said ours has a knife wound on her arm," says Vic.

"Is it bad?"

"She's lost some blood, but she's stopped the bleeding," I say.

"She's lucky."

Right, she is. I wonder what our tribute did in order to help herself. Maybe she picked up something near the cornucopia that she could use to help stabilize her wound.

"Jackie," Amandla asks me, "have you ever lost track of your tribute?"

"No, I don't think I ever have. Guess I've been lucky at that. I've come close at times, especially when I was in my first training runs. But my mentor, Brenda, showed me how to keep a watch and how to anticipate moves that would put my tribute out of range."

"So, you've never been shocked?"

"Fortunately not!" I've heard how the Gamemakers can send a sharp electrical jolt to our neck collars but such has never happened to me. "The signal from the chips that get embedded in a tracker's arm is good for about a half mile. If you're paying attention you can keep yourself in range. You just have to be ready to move and move fast."

"Oh." She draws several short breaths. "I electrocuted myself at home once on a bare wire. I really don't want to get shocked again."

"Me neither."

For a while we all sit. Sean and Vic start a conversation about their food supplies and how long it might take in the days to come for us to run through our initial supplies. But my mind is elsewhere. I'm tired and find myself thinking about my mentor Brenda and other trackers who have moved on. I lose track of the time until I notice Amandla acting oddly.

"Amandla," I ask, seeing a second confused look from her, "what's wrong?"

"My tribute is moving but the blip isn't changing position on my monitor."

"Let me see," I say and help her look at her orange tracking monitor.

"It says she's getting farther away from me. But the blip isn't moving! Jackie, don't let me get shocked!"

"Amandla, don't worry. You're a long way from getting shocked. Your tribute is only about 40 paces away."

All four of us stare at her tracking meter until I figure it out.

"You know what? She's climbing!"

"A tree?" she asks.

"Yes! She's going up. That's why the monitor says she's getting farther away and it explains why her blip isn't moving."

"She can climb trees!" says her valet partner.

"Oh yes!" says Vic.

Amandla, wiping tears from her eyes, produces a smile. "I get it. Thanks."

We then watch, spellbound, as the most unbelievable thing follows: her tribute starts to move away from us.

"How is she doing that?" asks Sean.

"She can move like a tree squirrel!" yells Amandla, all smiles.

Soon Amandla and Sean realize we have to separate. They're going to have to move on in order to stay with her. They hastily repack the supplies that had come out of Sean's backpack. Amandla and I exchange hugs. Sean gives us a thumbs-up and they turn to go.

An alarm goes off, causing us all to jump. I realize it's from my orange tracking monitor. Vic and I stare at it in disbelief. Amandla and Sean as well come over and look. They see the same thing - there's only one blip showing, and it's Amandla's.

My tribute is gone.

# # #

A/N: In The Hunger Games (the first novel of the series) Katniss refers three times to there being "catacombs" beneath the arena. Yet I don't think the term, as used by her, is meant to indicate that there are burial areas or bodies to be found. That means these catacombs are not like those found beneath, say, Rome or Paris. I think Katniss is simply saying there is a system of tunnels. That seems right, since the novel also says several times that deceased tributes are transported back their home districts. I can't imagine that anyone is going to be buried on the grounds of the arena before, during or after the event. So, I've taken Katniss' references to "catacombs" to mean there is a fairly good sized set of tunnels beneath the arena. It was this thought that gave rise to this entire story.

A/N: Yes I borrowed a scene from the movie. Couldn't help myself. Otherwise I'm following the novel.

A/N: As noticed in the Review posted by 'goldie031', yes there is a name key to the tracker's names. But this is just for fun and because this is _fan fiction_! XD Hopefully by now you know why trackers are needed and what role they play. As for the purpose of the Valets, you'll have to wait ... sorry!

A/N: Updated 29-Dec-2012 for typos and corrections.


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